


Chapel on the Boulevard

by Lizbettywrites



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alien Rituals, Las Vegas Wedding, Other, Rare Pairings, found an excuse to write about Riptide with shark teeth, friendly-drunk Ambulon amuses me, loosely based on various human customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14321814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizbettywrites/pseuds/Lizbettywrites
Summary: You know, if you're tipsy enough to think it's a good idea, the Conjunx Ritus can be performed in under half an hour. If you're slightly past tipsy, you could fit in an alien-style wedding in a casino. (It's a beautiful night, and Riptide's looking for something dumb to do.)





	Chapel on the Boulevard

Ambulon’s hand absently traced over the lines on his chestplate as he wandered down the boardwalk. Funny how a few strokes of paint suddenly enabled him to walk around in public without getting dirty looks from the Cybertronians he passed. The organics still eyed him warily, but they did that to every mechanoid around here. He couldn’t fault the soft-bodied beings for that.

So. He had the next six cycles to himself before his marching orders would arrive, and the proceeds from selling his escape pod for parts were burning a hole in his subspace. Not to mention that it was getting dark; he’d rather not be outdoors at this time of day. Ambulon headed into the next bar he saw.

The place was relatively quiet and remarkably dingy. The bartender was squishier than he’d expected, but the canisters of engex sitting alongside more organic intoxicants was a good sign, as were the few Cybs scattered among the booths and barstools.

Ambulon took a seat a little ways down the bar from a tall mech nursing a proportionately tall drink. “Pint of electrolex,” he told the bartender with a nod at the lowest-grade engex. A lower grade meant lower prices and more time drinking overall. Glass received and paid for, he settled in for some much-needed relaxation.

The doors opened, and a group of Autobots swaggered in, voices loud and paintjobs even louder. Ambulon cringed. This was just what he had hoped to avoid. Apparently this place wasn’t as hole-in-the-wall as he had hoped. He tried to concentrate on the drink before him and took a gulp of the bright liquid. His optics reset. Whoa. That had a strong taste. Must have had extra mineral deposits in the distilling process. He took another sip and decided he quite liked the bitter tang.

Three pints later, he found himself two stools closer to his unintroduced drinking buddy, who was still on the same barely-touched glass. Also: three decibels deafer, thanks to the boisterous crowd crammed into two booths along the wall.

“The next mech to start ‘I’m a Lonely Cybertronian’ is going to get my fist down his intake,” Ambulon grumbled, half to himself and half to the Autobot beside him.

The tall mech barked a laugh, the first sound he’d made all evening, flashing a mouth of jagged dentae and bright optics that immediately dimmed into a wince after the first _“ha!”_ He clapped a hand over his mouth and groaned. “Frag...”

“Are you all right?” Ambulon leaned closer, trying to catch the mech’s optics again. “You’ve been sitting here longer than I have, and I’ve barely seen you touch your fuel.”

The mech grimaced, showing off the unnatural points of his dental plates. “Mod’s taking a while to integrate,” he answered, shaping his words carefully to avoid unnecessary movement.

Ambulon cocked his head to the side. It occurred to him that perhaps four low-grade engexes added up, but aside from the room tilting just a little, he felt fine. Speaking was easy—easier than normal, even. “Why not lower your pain receptors?” That’s what he’d done back _then,_ as soon as he learned how. “Or turn them off?”

Wide yellow eyes stared at him. “You can do that?”

“Of course!”

“How…?” The mech gestured vaguely.

“I can show you. Here, let me—” He scrambled to get his legs beneath him on the stool so he’d be able to reach the mech’s helm, wobbling a little as he leaned over. It was hard to maneuver past the kibble on Toothache’s shoulder and back, but he wedged his torso between pieces of—boat runners, maybe?—to set his hands on either side of the mech’s neck where cabling met helm plates. “The easiest way is to press here and…” Toothache slumped forward in relief.

As Ambulon extricated himself from his position, he slipped and grabbed the mech’s arm to steady himself. Seat regained, he glanced at his half-full pint glass and turned his attention back to his impromptu patient. “Better?”

Toothache finished chugging his engex. “So much better!” He turned bright eyes on Ambulon once more. “Mech, you’ve got the touch.”

“Anyone could do it,” he protested. His face felt warm. It was probably the engex. The mech just grinned wider in reply, and Ambulon felt compelled to change the subject. “So… modded dentae? Why?”

Another flash of white points. “I dunno. Makes a statement or something, I guess?”

Ambulon snorted. “And twenty-foot runners didn’t?”

Toothache _stuck out his glossa_. It was a silly, immature gesture. It shouldn’t have been cute. “That’s different. They built me with those.”

Oh. Ambulon knew all about that. “Which front?”

“Forced Flood.” He gave Ambulon a once-over. “Nice pro-badge. Who did the ceremony?”

Ambulon made a face. “The highest-ranking Autobot available.”

“Ugh.”

“He does neat work, though.”

“That had to be rough coming from… uh, across the line.”

Ambulon’s posture stiffened. He realized he hadn’t yet let go of Toothache’s arm. Now he would just draw attention to it by moving. “Yes, well. He wasn’t exactly warm, but I wouldn’t expect that from anyone.”

The tall Autobot leaned past him to wave down the bartender.

“Fill ‘er up,” he called, sliding his glass and a credit chip across the counter. Ambulon took the chance to pull his hand back as Toothache straightened up, new drink in hand. “Saved up for a long time for the mod,” he explained in between swigs of the bright highgrade. “Turns out it wasn’t as expensive as I thought, though, so I’m celebrating.”

“They probably charged less because they weren’t installing pain blockers.”

Toothache winced. “Good point.” He swirled his engex in its glass with a thoughtful hum. “So why’d you jump ship?”

Ambulon tossed back the rest of his drink. Chatty or not, he wasn’t doing this without a more tangible buzz. Wiping his mouth with his arm, he turned his attention to his would-be confidant.

“Why didn’t I jump ship would be a better question. Lemme—let me tell you, it’s the shorter list. Let's just say I wanted a choice in how I fight. Being part of a whole? Less great when it's literal.” So what if he was being a little cryptic, he knew what he meant.

“Huh.”

“Yep.” How did this glass get so empty? Ambulon mumbled his next comment against the rim as he eyed the unobscured table through it resentfully. “Couldn’t even give me a decent alt mode, the cheapskates.” He passed the glass to the bartender when the squishy walked by and ordered a smaller pint this time.

Toothache was still nodding along, so he plowed ahead.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could be a truck. Something mobile, at least, you know?”

“Sure… Uh. What are you now?”

Ambulon ducked his head and leaned in. “‘S embarrassing.”

Toothache’s eyes were wide and earnest. “I won’t laugh.”

“Pfft. Yeah, you will.”

He told him. To his credit, Toothache tried to conceal his snigger and looked trite after it had passed. Ambulon figured eh, what the heck, that was good enough. He picked up his drink and took a swig.

“Ugh.” He made a face at the contents. “That’s not the same mix. It’s _sweet_.”

“Lemme see.” Toothache plucked the glass from him and took a small sip before handing it back while he concentrated. His optics brightened. “That’s good!”

Ambulon nudged the drink back over to him. “You can have it, then.”

“Thanks. Here, let me buy you another—”

“You’re nice,” he set his hand on Toothache’s arm to stop him from raising it, “but I’ve prolly had enough.” His resolve wavered as round yellow eyes pleaded with him. “...Probably.”

Fifteen kliks later, they were engaged in a debate over flavor profiles when Ambulon noticed a large organic saunter over to the bar stool beside him at the edge of his vision. He focused on his own conversation as the scaly being ordered.

“So you don’t like sweet stuff? What about rust sticks?” Toothache seemed incredulous at the idea.

Ambulon huffed. “D’you have any idea how bad those’re for you?”

He got a crooked grin at that. “Says the mech spendin’ all his off time in a bar.”

“That’s different,” he defended himself. “The charge from the highgrade doesn’t wear away your tank coating.” He flapped his hands to illustrate...something. “See, it’s like you got the anti-collusion—corrosion—stuff lining your tank, and rust sticks don’t ever break down all the way ‘cos they aren’t energon, so the leftover molecular-whatsits just sit there and build up and next thing you know? Rust infection. In your fuel tank. Hurts like the Pit.”

As he finished his impromptu lecture, Ambulon became aware of the organic who had joined their barside huddle leaning in. He cocked his head to the side. “Uh… can I help you?”

“That depends.” Leathery lips leered. “Got a real nice ship parked out back. Old Cyb recreation vessel. All the bells an’ whistles, if you get my drift. Real nice hookups in the cabin, mm? Lookin’ for somebody...compatible.”

Ambulon reset his optics. Was his translation program malfunctioning?

In his peripheral vision, Toothache’s armor fluffed out threateningly. “He’s not interested, Y’grik.” Oh. Maybe not.

The would-be pickup artist bared his lack of teeth up at Ambulon’s drinking buddy. “Says who?”

Ambulon edged into the middle of the staredown. “Says me—I. Says I.” Oh Primus, he was in no shape to stand up to this guy.

“You say that now...” The scaly face got closer. “...but gimme a little of your time, baby, an’ I guarantee you’ll change your tune after a few blown—”

A blur of white and blue crashed into the organic’s face. Close as Tall, Dark and Scaly was to an average Cybertronian’s height, he still went flying across the bar. Ambulon whipped his head around to find the instigator.

Toothache’s flared kibble made him look even bigger than before. His face was twisted with loathing. “Nobody wants to fulfill your stupid mech fetish,” he announced, optics flaring. “Back. Off.”

Ambulon could only stare as the Autobot returned to his seat.

Toothache glanced at him over the top of his glass. His EM field extended out, tinged with concern. “You okay? He’s been in and out all day. Everybody’s sick of him.” Ambulon eased back onto his stool, and Toothache seemed to relax.

“That was some show of devotion,” the bartender commented.

Both mechs glanced down at him with no small amount of shock. Toothache set his glass down with a heavy _thunk_.

Ambulon narrowed his optics. "Show of _what_?"

"Devotion." The bartender blinked slowly. "Is my translator working? You stood up for your friend, made a scene to defend his honor. That's very loyal of you." Tentacles waved vaguely. "Quite admirable."

Ambulon met Toothache's bemused stare with his own look of confusion. "He doesn't mean..."

"Nope. No, he wouldn't know..." Toothache trailed off, optics dimming in thought. "But... you know... you think maybe... would that count?"

"Count as what?"

Ambulon could have impaled the curious organic with the focused energy of his glare. "I don't think so," he addressed his drinking buddy. "Don't the other acts have to come first?"

"Other acts? In what?"

Toothache seemed too distracted to care that the squishy was prying into Cybertronian affairs and culture. "'S called the Conjunx Ritus. Four acts... it is four, right?"

Ambulon shrugged. "I think so?"

"The last one's Devotion, though, so what you said reminded us of that..." Toothache quieted again. Ambulon could practically hear his processor firing synapses. "The first's kinda obvious, just like, holding hands or hugging or something physical. Intimacy? Before devotion's, uh, giving, I think. The word starts with a 'p', but that's what it means... some kind of present. An' before that's something about secrets, like, sharing something embarrassing or bad, 'cause, like, if you can't tell 'im your bad stuff, you can't trust 'im with your good stuff." The Autobot's head whipped up abruptly, optics bright and intent on Ambulon's face. "Waitaklik."

He froze under the scrutiny. "What?"

"You gave me your drink."

"I..." Huh. "Well, you bought me another after that."

"The rites don't say anything about repetition... recital... reciprocation, do they?"

No, they didn't, not that Ambulon had heard of.

"And you told me your alt mode..."

Which was, admittedly, very embarrassing.

"And!" Toothache held one finger up, looked at his hand, and pointed two more. "And you held my arm!"

Oh. Oh, slag, he had noticed that. Which meant... "Oh. So I did..."

The Autobot seemed to register what all he had just run through. "Those're the first three. And then I... and then he said..." He trailed off again, jaw going slack.

They stared at each other in silence as the surrounding noise continued. Ambulon recovered first.

"Does that mean... you and I..."

Toothache jolted in his seat. "I guess?" He looked over at the bartender, who wasn't even trying to seem uninvolved at this point. "Whaddya think?"

The organic rested his bulbous chin on folded tentacles. "I didn't even know you Cybs _had_ marriage in your species. My people, we prefer something a little more intentional."

"Like what?" Ambulon asked, still trying to process his drinking buddy's revelation.

Limbs burst into a flurry of action behind the counter as the bartender launched into his explanation. “We begin with a drink mixed from every non-toxic substance available behind the counter of one’s bar of choice. Everything here revolves around the industry, after all. The concoction is served in dishes like these—” —a pair of translucent crystal bowls were set on the counter to illustrate— “—which the intendeds drink from and then shatter on the floor at the start of the officiation. They are then expected to clean up the shards, each choosing a larger piece to keep in their grasp during the ceremony. Words are said, of course, by a third party with the appropriate endorsement. Partners anoint one another with a plant oil native to this planet. In the final stage of the ritual, single-word vows are exchanged, and the frula carries their gra from the premises upon their back. It’s a beautiful tradition, one that many of our guests emulate when the occasion arises.”

“Um.” Toothache eyed his emptied glass warily. “I don’t think all of that translated. It sounded kind of…”

“Nonsensical,” Ambulon provided. “Are there reasons for all those things?”

“Of course!” The bartender sounded offended, but it was hard to tell with him rushing around behind the counter, tipping various engexes, coolants, and oils into a cocktail shaker. An alarming amount of smoke puffed from it with one addition, but the next settled it into a healthier energon-pink glow. “The clashing contents of the nuptial beverage symbolize the variety of life experience, of which both the intended partake the same. Cleaning up the broken dishes carries a similar meaning, focusing on the value of a joint effort. In holding the crystal shard, one must grip it without breaking the fragile material or being cut by a sharp edge, as with a difficult conversation one may have with one’s partner.

“And of course, our jof plant’s essence is alluring to the local fauna. It’s considered good fortune for the union if certain creatures arrive on the scene before the end of the ceremony.” He poured the shaker into the two bowls on the counter. “And leaving with one’s partner carried on one’s back is a remnant of our race’s earlier society: the gesture is a claim, a symbol of protection by one’s partner against one’s rivals for their affection. It finalizes the union.”

“They literally have your back,” Ambulon mumbled, tickled by the thought. “That’s… kind of beautiful, actually. All of it. It sounds nice.”

Toothache elbowed him, sniggering. “Maybe we oughta try it.”

The bartender gave a polite cough, drawing their attention to the bowls before them. “I have taken the liberty of mixing the first step in the ritual for you. Of course, you are welcome to refuse. It was mainly an illustration.”

Ambulon found himself locking optics with Toothache for the second time that night. A question—a challenge—passed between them.

His hand shot out first, but his drinking buddy (conjunx endura?) wasn’t slow to follow. In sync, they tossed back the contents of the bowls. Also in sync, both gagged at the taste. Oil and engex did _not_ mix well.

Toothache stuck out his glossa and pawed at the sensors, coughing. Ambulon cringed as the aftertaste coated his mouth and set his bowl down. It made sense that he’d be a little more used to the dregs of the fuel stores.

“Well,” he addressed the bartender as Toothache recovered, “where to now?”

“There’s a slot mechanic next door who’s ordained. Look for the brass rings.”

Ambulon felt a thrill down his back plating. Holy scrap. They were actually doing this. He scooped up both bowls and took hold of his conjunx’s hand.

“Come on.”

Something about the excited grin spreading over Toothache’s face brought a flutter to his fuel tank. Or maybe that was the marital cocktail of ick. Or the buildup of copious amounts of electrolex into a highgrade-worthy buzz. Either way, Ambulon had made up his mind. 

***

“—so that’s it, really,” Ambulon finished. “We went through with the ceremony, and by the time it was finished we had to get back to our units. Never saw him again.”

His Amica, at least, seemed amused rather than irritated at the tale. “I can’t believe you have a conjunx endura,” First Aid cackled, still leaning against the nearest counter for support as he had been for most of the story.

“Not legally,” Ambulon corrected him matter-of-factly, “except on that particular planet—our image capture is in some registry computer, but they didn’t require identification of any kind, and I’d have to know the mech’s name to update my file.”

Ratchet reset his optics for the twentieth time. His EM field broadcast pure exasperation. "You of all mechs... I thought you had more sense than that."

Ambulon grimaced. "If it will salvage your opinion of me, that one impulsive decision probably filled my stupidity quota for the rest of my life."


End file.
